His Masterpiece
by EvilGenius27
Summary: It was someone new. He was excited. He hadn’t had someone to play with for months.


**Disclaimer: **Of course I don't own Sander Cohen, Andrew Ryan, or anything else from the Bioshock universe, so please don't sue me :)

His Masterpiece

Cohen sat quietly, his eyes on the screen. It was someone new. He was excited. He hadn't had someone to play with for months. The last person (that wasn't a splicer) that had made the mistake of passing through Fort Frolic had ended up as one of his many works scattered around Poseidon Plaza.

But Cohen had good reason to believe that this one would be different. From what he had seen so far of his exploits in Arcadia, he was more than capable of handling himself when it came to splicers, and he could even hold his own against big daddies. The security camera footage he had seen placed this marvelous mystery man a cut above the rest.

Cohen had hacked into the radio signal of the man, and it appeared Andrew Ryan himself, along with the mysterious Atlas (who was obviously not what he seemed) were both interested in him. That was what had piqued his interest initially, the fact that the two most powerful people in Rapture at present were bothering with a supposedly common stray like him. There was something afoot, and the mystery man was at the center of it.

Oh look, he was on his way. Cohen reluctantly switched off the monitor. He had to prepare for his arrival.

* * *

"No no Fitzpatrick! Have you forgotten everything I taught you?" Cohen cried. He glared at the piano player in contempt.

His ex-disciple whimpered in fear. "Please, I'm trying my best!" He began again.

Sander tuned him out and sighed. He wouldn't set off the bomb until the man arrived. Cohen was surprised by how easily the man had taken care of the splicers he had sent to test him. He was good. Maybe good enough to actually survive what Cohen had planned for him.

Of course Cohen could take care of the three nuisances himself, but where was the fun in that? Besides, he was an artist, and artists had no place in war. An artists job was to create beauty, and create beauty he would.

His quadtych, his masterpiece. Ah, that was a thing of true beauty. It had been months in the making, and Cohen believed he had finally found the final puzzle piece, in the man whose arrival he was eagerly awaiting.

Cohen's attention was drawn back to reality when he noticed the silence. Fitzpatrick had stopped playing. His head was down, he was crying.

"Keep playing Kyle, from the beginning." Sander said in a low, dangerous voice. Fitzpatrick dared not disobey, and began again, but it was not the awe-inspiring piece Cohen had imagined, it lacked the artistry.

"Da da da da da da da da, no no!" Cohen shouted angrily. He heard the theater doors close, and realized the mystery man had finally arrived.

The music stopped. "Cohen, you sick fuck, let me out of thi…" Kyle didn't get a chance to finish. The explosion temporarily deafened the artist, who was somewhat surprised. He had hoped he would be able to hold himself back a bit longer, but now that the man, the final piece, had arrived, he found that he couldn't resist. He wanted to get started right away. It was a shame the performance had to be cut short so quickly, but, the show must go on.

"Life, death, the burden of the artist is to capture it," he began. "See young Fitzpatrick here on the stage? Use your camera! Take him as he is now, so I may remember him." The thespian smiled. It was all coming together perfectly

* * *

It was complete, finally! And it was…beautiful. Of course it wasn't nearly as perfect as he had imagined it, but when using outside sources, one had to allow for such things.

The little moth had fulfilled his end of the deal. All four of his ex-disciples were dead, and his quadtych was complete. He had left a few minutes ago, off on his mission, whatever it was was. Cohen didn't care. He was alone with his masterpiece.

He revelled in it's artistry, and silently congratulated himself on his expertise. People were most beautiful right after death, and the four snapshots in front of him captured that special kind of beauty perfectly.

Cohen sighed in contentment and looked around. There were no spectators to view is triumph, no one to commend him on his vision, but he didn't care. He was alone. His masterpiece was complete. That was all that really mattered.

**AN: Please read (which you probably already have) and review (^_^)**


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